


Fate Saw The Jewel In Me

by oxymoronic



Category: Assassin's Creed - All Media Types
Genre: M/M, One Shot, Slice of Life
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-07
Updated: 2017-01-07
Packaged: 2018-09-15 12:47:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,408
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9235814
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oxymoronic/pseuds/oxymoronic
Summary: Death, like a spectre, hangs ever-present on Ezio’s horizon, and the thought of love and loss again shakes him to his bones. He should leave, he knows. He should turn back. But he is old, and lonely, and weary of the war, and this is one night between thousands.





	

**Author's Note:**

> i have no idea how i ended up here either, but i hope you enjoy. title from the poem _[ah dear](https://lefthandedsnake.wordpress.com/2013/08/16/irog-a-translation-of-bakis-ah-dear/)_ by baki:
> 
>      Fate saw the jewel in me, and pawed the heart apart to have it,  
>  Leaving a bleeding body mined of love and raw, my dear.
> 
> hovertext for translations as per!

Night comes slowly to Konstantiniyye, golden-soft and warm on age-bright rooftops. Over time, cities clatter into familiar patterns, the humming rush of crowds, the shrieking of tradesmen, the sharp shout of guards, and Ezio has of late found little pleasure in tourism. He has not glanced at landmarks without wondering how best to scale them, or looked through local markets without searching for his advantage – for a place to hide, for a tool to use, for a face in the crowd – for many decades. He both misses and lacks Claudia’s childlike curiosity, her letters desperate with commands for pictures, books, descriptions, any chance of the smallest glimpse of the world which seems to her so filled with wonder.

Ezio has little chance for such casual enjoyment, and finds it more than mystifying to see it still so ever-present on the recruits rallied to Yusuf’s cause. They all seem to capture a little of their leader’s cheeriness, of his unmatchable ability to remain somehow both lighthearted and ruthless nevertheless. To find some joy, some pleasure in their cause. The years have been too long, the losses too great, the responsibilities too unkind for Ezio to say the same.

Still. Yusuf seems to have managed in the smallest slice of time to recall some part of him which has long since lain dormant; the reckless, feckless youth who pranced foolishly around in old Firenze, believing wholeheartedly in the sanctity of life, in the unshakable unity of his parents, of the pleasures and adventures which lay before him. Naïve, charming, and hopelessly unknowing, Ezio has never since fully known that light, that life, that joy which comes with ignorance, with close friends, and an endless stretch of summers. It had stirred from deep within him the moment that Yusuf had challenged him to vault up Galata; Ezio has raced many a man in his time, thief and assassin alike, but always for some twisted cause, to prove a point or teach a lesson. Never to revel in the pleasure of it, to enjoy the swiftness of the ascent or the nimbleness betrayed in every swing.

It is midsummer, the lazy peak of the year, where the days are lingering and the nights are almost impossibly warm, and Yusuf had offered him the gift of his greatest pleasure – whatever that might be. “Wine, narghile, women, men, food, or song,” he had boasted cheerily, with a hand clasped against Ezio’s arm. “My city can provide any and all!”

Ezio has neither the stomach nor the mood for drunkenness; and has not taken pleasure in the thought of a woman since the sight of Cristina’s corpse. “You are kind to offer, arkadashim, but you will excuse my refusal. I have no taste for any of these things.”

“Then you will suffer through the ordeal of my company,” Yusuf replied, undaunted by Ezio’s dour stubbornness. “Climb the Ayasofya tonight, and meet me on its rooftops. There, we shall watch the sun go down – and even you cannot deny the great beauty of günbatımı across Konstantiniyye!”

The simplicity of his request was difficult to reject – and besides, he need not linger long. Ezio often spends the hour of sunset waiting quietly for the veiled hush of darklight it so readily affords, and that he would enjoy the prospect of spending it in Yusuf’s company is not something he can deny.

Yusuf is not wrong; the spectacle of sundown across the sprawling city affords nothing but the purest joy to Ezio’s heart, and he regrets not having taken the time to observe it more closely before now. Is thankful for Yusuf’s determination, for handing him the simplest gift of kindness in the late-gathering years of his life. “I knew I could make you smile,” Yusuf says, warmly, handing Ezio the flask of spiced wine he had brought them to share while they watched; Ezio had not noticed the lightness of his own expression. “I merely had to employ my fabled cheeriness and patience. No, do not hide it! I do not mean to tease.”

“Mi dispiace,” Ezio replies. “I am grateful indeed for your persistence. I would never have observed this without you.”

Yusuf shrugs. “You seem like a man who needs to be reminded of the joys of life,” he says, easily. “I am not one to evade the fight – but justice and liberty and peace can become hollow words indeed if you do not occasionally remind yourself of the world which stands to benefit from them.”

“You are wiser than you look,” Ezio replies, voice tainted with mild surprise.

“Çok teşekkür ederim, mentore,” Yusuf replies, with a snort, snatching the flask clear of Ezio’s reach. “You are sure there is nothing else I can provide? You have something of a reputation for… how to put it… self-gratification.”

“É perfetto, grazie,” Ezio murmurs. “I am not the man I always was.”

“None of us is,” Yusuf agrees. “Forgive me. I only thought to make you comfortable so far from home.”

“As I said,” Ezio replies, quietly. “This is more than sufficient.” He slides Yusuf a curious look. “And you? You have no family, no wife?”

Yusuf snorts. “No wife, that much is certain. I have tried and failed to find pleasure in women, and have had even less success in holding the affections of men.” Yusuf laughs when Ezio fails to hide his surprise, companionably knocks their shoulders together. “I have heard enough stories about Michelangelo and Botticelli to know the idea of man lying with man cannot be a shock to an İtalyan!”

“Scusami,” Ezio replies, after a moment. “It is not so freely spoken of.”

“Nor is it here, save amongst friends.” Yusuf grants him a clear, calm look, unspeakably a challenge, and it is one Ezio finds he is happy to meet. “What is the word? Amici?”

“Sì,” Ezio answers, smiling a little at Yusuf’s cadence. “Amici.”

“Who is it you write to?” Yusuf asks, settling back again, letting his eyes fall to the distant horizon.

“My sister, Claudia.” Ezio smiles. “I suspect you two would find no little joy in one another’s company.”

“Then I hope to meet her some day,” Yusuf answers, amicably. “If you are in any way alike, she must be a formidable lady.”

 

 

 

It saddens him, to spend such little time in Yusuf’s company. Ezio thinks often of Leonardo, of the quiet nights they spent in solitude, talking and working, comforted by the knowledge that the cold revenge Ezio sought would only be heightened by caution, by patience. Here, Ezio has no such luxury, and knows full well that every moment he spends not seeking for the Masyaf keys grants his enemies nothing but a clear advantage.

Still, he had not reckoned upon the diligent friendship of a cheery local when he had embarked on his recovery of Altaïr’s legacy; and after sharing a fleeting drink with him between the domes of Hagia Sophia, Yusuf seems determined to ensure he does not merely devote the months he spends in Konstantiniyye to the cause. He takes him to sample local foods, local wines, introduces him to the company of men and women he knows around the city, dares him to climb rickety, half-finished minarets, laughs uproariously when he cajoles Ezio to dance with a passing group of Romani. Yusuf is so full of light that Ezio finds it overwhelming; humbling, almost. That a man can still find such joy in life whilst wielding an assassin’s blade.

Then, often, when the den is clear and the students gone, Yusuf will find him alone, bring him a volume from their extensive shelves and read to him, find a lute and have Ezio play for him. He asks no questions about the keys, save for what he needs to know to protect his men and his city. He seems to bear no ambition for power, inquires little about Ezio’s past and the Apple save to establish truth from fiction.

“Do not worry,” Yusuf says, amused. “Even here we heard tales of Ezio Auditore. It was always a point of great interest between my fellow öğrenciler – what incredible feat you would accomplish next!”

“You do a disservice to those I have known in crediting me solely with these accomplishments,” Ezio softly replies. “I have planned little, and achieved less alone.”

“There is a reason you stand in the middle of such a story,” Yusuf insists, smiling. “You are a remarkable man. Few would have achieved as much in half a lifetime, and yet you are still not done.”

“Not yet,” Ezio quietly agrees. “I fear it will never feel like a life well-spent until it brings some peace.”

 

 

 

Yusuf is a kind man, and open in his pleasure. He finds Ezio sat alone one night beside the firelight, comforting aching bones with scattered cushions, and takes a seat quietly next to him. “I have not seen you much of late,” Ezio says, checking him over with a quick glance. His brightly-patterned clothes are clean, and he appears unhurt, to Ezio’s relief.

“I have been hunting,” Yusuf replies, with a wolfish grin. “A shipment of Templar spies from Hacıbey. I was eager to complete the task of finding them before they hid themselves for the winter season.” His sharp-toothed smile suggests he has been successful. “And you, efendim? Doubtless you have been busy.”

“A little,” Ezio admits. He is further behind in locating the next key than he’d prefer, though elsewhere they are making good progress. He is waiting to hear from his contacts in Marseille, but suspects they may soon have securely wrested control of the city. Ezio’s mind is half-caught in strategies and battle-plans when Yusuf speaks again; and at first he is certain he’s misheard him. 

“I had wondered, arkadashim,” Yusuf says, “If it might please you to lie with me.”

For a moment, Ezio can only stare. “I have never been with a man,” Ezio quietly, eventually replies, his voice hoarser than he’d expected. It is, in the least, a half-truth; it has been decades, if not more.

Yusuf tilts his head. That sharp-toothed smile is back, but this time it sends a steady warmth rising through Ezio’s skin. “Then let me kiss you,” he insists. “And you might judge your pleasure.”

Ezio does not protest; and so quietly, hesitantly, Yusuf does. He sits up a little, slides a steady hand round to sit at the nape of Ezio’s neck, and kisses him, a soft, warm, rush of pleasure Ezio had not expected stirring from within him. His heart scudding, Ezio pushes back, turns the kiss hard and swift and breathless; and when Yusuf pulls back, face flushed and grin in place, Ezio is surprised to find himself more than a little shaken.

“Sì?” Yusuf asks, half-cheek, half-kindness.

“Sì,” Ezio quietly replies. “Evet.”

Yusuf kisses him again, fast and gentle. “Come, mentore,” he says, and stands, holding out his hand. “We are not alone here. I have rooms nearby.”

“I did not think you slept,” Ezio murmurs dryly, climbing to his feet, and is rewarded by Yusuf’s familiar, lurching laugh. They walk in silence through the den, bow fleeting, respectful deference to the other assassins they pass along the way. Yusuf leads him down an alley a little further from the city wall, climbs deftly up the building to unhook a shutter and slip inside, leaving it hanging open in quiet invitation. The minute walk and the cold-sharp air has shaken a little of the eagerness from Ezio’s skin, and he spends a moment in quiet contemplation as Yusuf makes the climb. He can think only of Caterina, Leonardo, Cristina, all of those whom he has loved made desperate with grief, sadness, or pain. Death, like a spectre, hangs ever-present on his horizon, and the thought of love and loss again shakes him to his bones.

He should leave, he knows. He should turn back. But he is old, and lonely, and weary of the war, and this is one night between thousands. Ezio flicks his wrist, loosens the blade within, and swiftly makes the climb.

Inside, Yusuf has lit candles, and their flickering light washes kindly across his darkened skin. He is not quite disarmed, not quite unclothed, but his hair hangs loose around his face, and the sight of it unfurls something feral within Ezio’s gut. “Che bello,” he murmurs, crossing the room, and is taken by surprise when Yusuf turns to meet him, sets his hands at work on the straps hanging across Ezio’s chest.

“I am glad you have come,” Yusuf says, quietly, as he undresses him with swiftness. “Both here, and to Konstantiniyye. I feared often that the service would take my life before I ever had the chance to meet you.” The thought makes Ezio’s heart constrict; Yusuf seems to notice some waver in his countenance, presses a comforting kiss on the corner of his mouth. “Come, now,” Yusuf murmurs. “You say yourself, we cannot know our future. So why not lay it aside, if only for a while?”

After all these years, Ezio is not entirely sure he knows how. “I have lived long enough already with regret,” Ezio admits, and Yusuf, tasting victory, grins a little, kisses him again.

 

 

 

The nights are turning cold in Konstantiniyye. They lie together on the warm divan, swamped with soft sheets and scattered cushions, and enjoy a little of the peacefulness of the night. Tomorrow, Ezio will be out again, skittering across the darkened rooftops, the future in his mind and death in his hands; but for tonight, he is contented in this bed, and with this company.

“Fate is a strange mistress,” Yusuf says, absently, from where he lays on his stomach at Ezio’s side. “To think of all the chances we might have had in life which we will never know.”

Ezio cannot answer. He is haunted still by the memory of Altaïr; by the life he devoted entirely to the cause. The life he lived without freedom, without peace, without the endless stretch of summer, the possibility of warless love.

Yusuf cuffs him. “You will never find peace, aşkım, if you do not allow yourself one night without gloomy contemplation.”

Ezio rolls his eyes. “Forgive me,” he says, dryly. “I am still very much your discepolo when it comes to mindless cheerfulness.”

“Fear not,” Yusuf answers, smiling, as he presses a kiss to Ezio’s neck. “We will make a master of you yet.”


End file.
